Page 85 of The Hollywood Switch-up

“Oh.” Barely a whisper. Then, softer. “God, Stefan . . . More.”

He gave her more. Inch by inch, watching her face, the way her expression shifted from anticipation to recognition.

“You feel—” She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him flush. “I didn’t know it could feel like this. Like you fit somewhere I didn’t know was empty.”

“Nada se compara contigo.” He kissed her eyelid, her cheekbone, the corner of her mouth. “Nothing. No one. Ever.”

They moved together—slow, deep, finding a rhythm that wasn’t urgent anymore. His hand slid down her thigh, hitching her leg higher, and the angle changed and she broke.

“There—Stefan—right there.”

He held the angle, thrusting deeper, watching her face. “I can feel you tightening around me. Tell me what you need.”

“Deeper.” Her nails dug into his shoulders. “I want to feel every inch claiming me. I want to ache tomorrow and think of you every time I move—think of how full you made me.”

He groaned and drove into her harder, still controlled, still deliberate. She met him, hips rising, her breathing ragged against his ear.

“Since the storm,” she said between breaths. “that dream I had—the shower, your voice telling me to use my words. I woke up aching and furious at myself for wanting you that badly. I didn't know it could actually feel like this.”

“Joder, Erika.” His rhythm stuttered. “You can’t say things like that and expect me to last.”

“I don’t want you to last.” She pulled his face to hers, lips brushing his ear. “I want to feel you lose control inside me. You’ve been so careful with me. So patient. Stop being careful.”

Something broke loose in him. He fucked her harder—long strokes that made the headboard knock against the wall—and she cried out, arching into him, matching him.

He kissed her to keep from coming on the spot.

Then she pushed at his chest. Not hard—just pressure. He pulled back, confused, and she pushed again until he rolled onto his back. She followed, straddling him, sinking down with a sound that punched the air from his lungs.

She looked down at him. Flushed, wrecked, her hair a curtain around them. Her face had shifted—recognition. Like she’d just realized she was allowed to take what she wanted and the world wouldn’t end.

She caught his wrists. Pressed them gently against the mattress. Not pinning—asking.

“Stay here with me,” she whispered. “Don’t perform. Don’t direct. Just let me feel you.”

He went still beneath her. Surrendering what he didn’t know he’d been holding.

She moved in slow, rolling strokes that dragged him along every nerve. Her eyes never left his. Watching him come apart with the same intensity she brought to her art.

“You’re shaking,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“Good.” She rolled harder, grinding down so he hit deep. “I want to feel what I do to you.”

She released one of his wrists. Reached between them, fingers finding her clit—and this time she didn’t close her eyes. She held his gaze while she touched herself, circling slow, then faster, and the vulnerability of it broke open between them.

“I’ve never done this in front of anyone,” she breathed. “Never trusted anyone enough to let them see me come like this—on their cock, touching myself.”

“I see you.” His voice broke. “All of you. Eres lo más hermoso que he visto en mi vida.”

She released his other wrist. “Now touch me. I want your hands on me when I come—when I come all over you.”

He found her hips, her waist, cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples. She moved faster, chasing it, his own release building at the base of his spine.

“I’m yours.” He didn’t know where the words came from, only that they were true. “Soy tuyo, Erika. Todo. Siempre.”

“Te pertenezco,” she whispered, and everything in him went still.